It’s Easy to Lose a
Lover in the Desert
c. fidel espinoza
Sometimes the desert dries the things we love
into a fine silver dust for the wind to carry
over the vertebrae of the Franklin mountains
and into Juaritos. This happened to my wife once,
when she buried her lover into the ground.
They found him in a field of red chiles
where the maggots were bullish and furious.
My wife never cried for him
not even when she found his heart
in the pico de gallo. Now she won’t stop
dreaming that she is the rain. This is not unusual,
in the desert; we all dream we are rain.
In her dreams, her body soaks the chile field
until her lover’s sun bleached bones take root and bloom.
I’ve lost lovers to the desert, too. But she doesn’t care. She’s never
asked.
On our anniversary, she sends me postcards from Hatch, New Mexico.
Platitudes mostly.
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